


The Devil To Pay

by johnsarmylady



Series: The Devil and Sherlock Holmes [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Heavy Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-22 00:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are missing, and the clock is counting down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil To Pay

John had almost finished dressing when the doorbell rang.

“You going to get that?” he called through to Sherlock as he rummaged around in the drawer for his favourite oatmeal jumper.

“Thanks John, I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

Pausing in his search John looked up, shook his head, and with a resigned sigh ran down the stairs to answer the door.

As he started to open the door it was shoved forcefully, and before he had time to react a hand holding a chloroform soaked rag was clamped across his nose and mouth. As he slid to the floor a syringe containing a mild sedative was produced and swiftly administered.

A heavily built individual stepped over the doctor’s prone body, and hurried into 221A, taking Mrs Hudson by surprise.  He soon emerged, having ‘taken care’ of the slight septuagenarian, then together he and his colleague walked quietly up the stairs.

Sherlock, not recognising the footsteps on the stairs, was just reaching for John’s gun when the voice stopped him.

“Oh I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Mr Holmes, because if you do, I’d have to kill you, and that would ruin the surprise we have for you.”

Turning slowly, he saw that both men were aiming silenced guns at him.

“John?”

“He’s waiting for you downstairs, lucky man, he gets to share your surprise.” This from the second man, as he waved to indicate that Sherlock should walk towards him.

“You won’t need your coat Mr Holmes, your suit jacket will do.  And if you would just hand over yours and Doctor Watson’s phones please.”

“You’re very polite for kidnappers.” Sherlock observed, handing over John’s phone and slipping his hand into his Belstaff pocket to retrieve his iPhone.

Taking the phones from him, the two men started to lead him down the stairs, but as his gaze fell on John lying in the doorway he leapt down the remaining stairs and dropped to his knees.

“He’s been sedated, that’s all.” The first man said

“All?” the younger man spat looking up and noticing for the first time that the door to his landlady’s flat was ajar, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Where’s Mrs Hudson?”

“Who, the old biddy?” The man asked, carelessly waving the barrel of his gun in Sherlock’s face. “You won’t have to worry about her, she didn’t suffer.”

Sherlock quite literally saw red. His gaze focussed on the silencer, where there were ominous red smears.

“You shot her? At point blank range?” knocking the gun barrel aside, Sherlock launched upwards at the man, only to have the second man’s gun cracked across his head, and for a moment the world went misty and started to spin, but the larger man held him, pulling his face close, forcing him to look at him.

“Now that’s enough, Mr Holmes.  I want you to pick up your friend and put him in the back of the car – if you don’t you will be made to stand and watch, while my friend here guts him and leaves him to die slowly.”

 Knowing this wasn’t the time for useless heroics; Sherlock shook his head in an effort to clear it, dropped down on one knee and carefully lifted his friend, staggering a little as he carried him to the car.

There was a man already sitting in the passenger seat.  He didn’t look round when the consulting detective climbed in, he just directed his men to handcuff him.  To Sherlock’s surprise, they cuffed one of his hands to the headrest behind John, and the other to part of the metal support structure under the seat in front of him.

“Mr Holmes,” the passenger spoke with a cultured German accent. “I understand you are something of a Houdini – I believe I have solved the problem of you picking the locks on your handcuffs.”

“Your men killed my landlady. There was no need for that.”

“I’m afraid Mr Holmes there was every need, you see, we couldn’t afford to leave any witnesses.”

Sherlock swallowed and glanced down at John, now belted into his seat but leaning drunkenly against him.

“What have you given John?”

“Don’t worry; he really has only had a mild sedative, and a small dose of chloroform to make the injection easier to give.”

While they were talking Sherlock noticed that the larger of the two kidnappers had slid into the driving seat, and was smoothly pulling out into the evening traffic, and a glance out of the back window showed the other man pulling into the traffic behind them on a powerful motorcycle.

xXx

The celebratory atmosphere in the restaurant deflated quicker than a punctured balloon, and leaving the legal team to continue their dinner Mycroft and Lestrade headed straight to the former’s Whitehall office to check the CCTV. As they drove Lestrade made a call, requesting officers to attend the Baker Street premises to see if there were any clues to where they had been taken.

They had barely enough time to access the CCTV footage before Greg’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and he silently excused himself to take the call. Mycroft’s eyes followed the other man’s movement, and he was quick to spot the moment his face lost all colour and he staggered to a chair to sit down.

Moving swiftly, Mycroft poured him a large glass of brandy, pushing the glass into his hand and standing over him as he knocked it back in a single gulp.  Mycroft refilled the glass, and poured one for himself.

“Tell me.”

“Dear God, they’ve killed her!” Tear-filled hazel eyes rose to look up at the embodiment of the British Government. “Mrs Hudson is dead!”

For a long moment Mycroft was silent, his nostrils flaring as if biting down on his fury – after all, anger wouldn’t help the old lady now, and he needed to be calm and focussed if he was to stand a chance to save his brother and the doctor.

“Whoever it is, they are playing to win.” He said quietly.

“Why Mycroft?  What did she do?  Who has Sherlock upset this time?  Or John?  Do you think this is something to do with Moran’s family?”

Mycroft returned to his computer, to the CCTV footage that was being streamed through to him.

“Moran’s family just wanted to see John in prison, to try to remove the stain placed on their good name by the renegade Colonel.” Channelling his anger, he remained outwardly calm as the two men studied the recorded footage.

Fortunately, it wasn’t long before they pinpointed the car and motorcycle pulling up outside 221B. It was unfortunate that the angle of the available cameras didn’t pick up the face of the man waiting in the car, but at least one of the kidnappers was pictured with reasonable clarity, as were the number plates of the two vehicles.

The time stamp on the recording was just before 6pm, and by 6.15 the two vehicles were pulling away with Sherlock and John on board.

“Christ, I hope the fact that Sherlock had to carry John to the car doesn’t mean he’s seriously hurt.” Greg muttered. 

Mycroft didn’t answer; he was reaching for his phone and instructing his people to trace both the kidnapper and the vehicles. 

Lestrade gave the same instructions to his team with regard to the vehicles, and advised Sally Donovan that he was having a photograph of one of the perpetrators e-mailed across to her.

Sending the picture to New Scotland Yard, Mycroft sat back and looked carefully at Lestrade.

“They’ve been gone two hours, we need to move fast.  I’ll get my team following the route of the vehicle – we need to know where they picked up that kid.”

xXx

John was still not conscious when the car finally turned off onto a large patch of waste land, bumping and rolling until it finally drew to a halt.  Sherlock had had to endure the ranting excuses of the man in the passenger seat.  He didn’t know Wilhelm Von Bork, let alone know why his brother should have kidnapped them in such an extravagant manner. Now as his handcuffs were being unlocked he realised that there had been more to the way he had been secured than just stopping him from picking the locks – his shoulders were sore from the awkward way he had been forced to sit, and John’s weight leaning against him had not helped.

“Right, out.” the motorcyclist had his gun aimed at Sherlock’s heart, and easing John away so that he was sitting upright, he complied with the order, looking around the dark landscape as he did.

“Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock turned to face Von Bork, noting that the man was fairly nondescript looking, like a business man who would easily be lost in a crowd of business men.  As he stared, the other kidnapper lit a couple of high power torches, handing one to his boss while he took the other over to a metal hatch in the top of a square block of concrete.

“Mr Holmes, I require you to carry Doctor Watson down into the bunker,” he flicked his torch towards the now open hatch.

“And if I refuse?”

“I believe my friends here have already told you the fate that awaits the good doctor if you do.” came the chilling reply. “Now be sensible, Mr Holmes.”

The realisation that he was outgunned and out-numbered, even if he hadn’t been suffering the after effects of the blow to the head and the way his body had been so awkwardly secured in the car, settled like ice in his stomach.  He didn’t like the sound of the bunker.

Walking around the car he leaned in, almost kneeling, so that he could slide John onto his shoulder in a fireman’s lift, staggering slightly under the weight of the solid body.  Manoeuvring carefully over the rough ground and up onto the painted concrete block, he peered down to where the driver was waiting, his torch lighting the rusting old ladder.

Twisting to look behind him, he noted the motorcyclist still had him covered, and Von Bork was giving him additional light.  Stepping carefully, he tested the strength of the ladder before climbing onto it and making his way down to the bottom of the shaft.

The driver stepped back against the wall, drawing his weapon and nodding towards an open door indicated that Sherlock should go through.

The room was about eight foot square, and the doorways leading through to other rooms had been sealed up with concrete, leaving a solid concrete box.  In the light from the torch Sherlock could see a box in the corner, and as he gently lowered John to the floor, he heard the sound of the heavy door being pulled shut.

“You have about 3 hours, Mr Holmes.” Von Bork’s voice floated down to him. “And the bomb that is contained in the box has three detonation devices, defuse one, and the others will detonate I assure you.”

Just before the door slammed shut, the driver slid his torch in to the room, giving them at least a little light to work by. The grinding of the airtight seals as the lock was turned from the outside sounded inside like the crack of doom.

xXx

Penniston, Mycroft’s CCTV specialist, had managed to track the car’s progress as it headed east, but when the A13 became the A1306 there were no more CCTV cameras.  Meanwhile, Lestrade’s team had found a name and address for the owner of the car.  He showed Mycroft the slip of paper, and was astounded to see the man turn first quite pale, the pink with anger.

Slapping the intercom button on his desk he growled softly into the speaker.

“Get me a security team – armed and ready to go in ten minutes.” Straightening up, Mycroft looked into Lestrade’s eyes. “There will be no quarter given Lestrade – this man’s brother was arrested as a spy, he was imprisoned, then deported, and his masters executed him.  I cannot – will not! – allow this to go unanswered.”

Greg nodded, thinking about the sweet old lady now lying on Molly’s mortuary slab.

“Let’s go.” He said quietly.

Three sleek black cars were waiting as they stepped into the street, two filled with Mycroft’s men, the third waiting with open doors for the two men that walked with silent purpose from the building.

To Greg’s surprise, Sally Donovan was sitting in the car waiting for them.

“I’ve stood the team down, Sir.”  She looked through her frizzy ringlets at her senior officer as she stepped out of the car. “I assumed you and Mr Holmes would want to deal with this personally.”

“Donovan?”

“The old lady – Mrs Hudson, she didn’t deserve Sherlock as a tenant, and she certainly didn’t deserve to die like that.” And with that she walked away down Whitehall, back towards New Scotland Yard.

In subdued silence the two government men got into the car, and the cavalcade moved off.

xXx

Strategically parked, the occupants of the three cars waited quietly for Ernst Von Bork to return home – their intelligence had picked up sightings of his car returning to London, and without anything else to point them to Sherlock and John’s whereabouts, this was the best they had to work with.

The car arrived about an hour later, they allowed the occupants to enter the house, and then Mycroft’s men swarmed the house, securing it and the men within it in minutes.

Mycroft and Lestrade stalked into the opulently decorated Kensington house, and into the elegant lounge where Von Bork sat, at ease and smoking a cigar.

“Mr Holmes, what a pleasure to see you.” He drawled, swirling brandy in a balloon glass and speaking through the cigar smoke.

“I sincerely doubt that Von Bork.” Curling his lip Mycroft looked down at the thug lying unconscious on the rich, deep pile carpet.

“Oh don’t mind him, he didn’t want to play nicely with your men.  He’ll have a headache when he wakes up, but this isn’t what you’re here for, is it? You’re here for your brother.” He glanced at the expensive watch on his wrist.  “Shall I give him back to you?  The way you gave my brother back to his paymasters.”

“Your brother was a spy – he deserved everything he got.”

“And your brother is a sleazy little private investigator, living off the misery of others with his pretty little boyfriend.  Well, they’ll get exactly what they deserve.”

With the speed of a striking snake, Mycroft grabbed the German by the throat and shook him, leaning right down into his face and hissing “Where is my brother?”

“You have an hour, Mr Holmes, before your brother is blown to hell.”

Everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath, it was so quite that the only sound was the snuffling breathing of the unconscious thug.

“But your letter said…” Lestrade choked the words out.

“Yes, yes. I said they’d be dead within 24 hours – and so they shall.  What I didn’t promise is that you’d have 24 hours in which to find them.” Von Bork smiled smugly.  “Can you access records of old Ministry of Defence buildings, Mr Holmes? You’ll find what’s left of him in an old Cold War bunker in Rainham.”

“Kent or Essex?” Greg asked.

“Essex.” Mycroft answered him “The route he took out of London means it could only be Essex.” He looked at his security officers. “Take this scum and have them securely held until we return. Lestrade, with me.”

Hurrying out to the car, Mycroft gave terse instructions to take them to the Battersea Heliport, then phoned his office to arrange a helicopter and to get the address of the bunker.  Looking at the man’s face, Lestrade saw, for the first time since the days when Sherlock was heavily using drugs, a fear that this time he may lose his brother.

xXx

In the bunker, John was examining the box with its highly explosive contents. With Sherlock holding the torch steady, the blond doctor tried several times to diffuse the bomb, conscious that the clock was ticking down the minutes they had left.

They’d tried to find a weakness in the walls, and even to get access the mechanism for the door, but Von Bork’s men had done their job thoroughly, and there was nothing they could do.

The glowing countdown clicked over.  Five minutes.

John stood up, and catching Sherlock’s hand he led him away to the far side of the room, and took the torch from him, turning it off, and turning to him in the darkness.

“I can’t protect you Sherlock.” John’s voice was soft, sad. “I can’t save you from this – I’m sorry.”

Sherlock swallowed.

“Then save yourself, John.”

The smaller man shook his head, a movement that his friend felt rather than saw.

“Not this time – I did tell you it’s not impossible to kill me. Blow me apart, and it won’t be possible to glue me back together again.”

“We can do nothing then?”

“I’m sorry….”

“Don’t be.” Unerringly Sherlock’s fingers found their way to John’s lips, silencing his apology. “We’re together, and you know as well as I that neither of us would want it any other way.”

“Let me at least make it painless for you.” As he spoke John placed his hands on either side of his lover’s head, his fingers threading through the damp and matted curls. “Hold me close Sherlock.”

The younger man wrapped his arms around the small solid body, and he gasped as this time he felt his fingers brush against silky feathers, felt the solid bone structure of the wing rest against his shoulders.

“They’re real!” he breathed.

“Of course they are, idiot!” John smiled.

John turned them slightly, so that the glow of the counter gave them just enough light to see each other, and his smile faded as midnight blue eyes looked up into smoky grey ones.

“I love you.” He whispered as he closed the gap between them and captured the cupids bow lips for one last kiss.

 

 


End file.
